


The Artful Forger

by mongoose_bite, TaneKore



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Art Thief!Harry, Fluff, Forger!Eggsy, Frottage, M/M, Street Artist!Eggsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaneKore/pseuds/TaneKore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart considers himself a gentleman thief, stealing art from those most able to afford it and least likely to even notice. He is very surprised one evening to discover he’s stolen a forgery. Merlin, his fence, is disappointed, but Harry decides he rather likes it.</p><p>Shame he’ll never know who the artist is, isn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artful Forger

**Author's Note:**

> So TK and I decided to hold our own sort of big bang thing, without wordcounts or deadlines, and this is the result!

Harry breathed in time to the swinging of the camera. It looked away. His shoes made no sound on the carpet as he confidently stepped forward. There was no one home; there was rarely anyone home in these vast London mansions, their worth far beyond even his healthy bank accounts. It might have been easier if there were; machines do not sleep.

They can, however, be broken. Harry’s powerful electromagnetic door opener wrenched the magnetic locks on the safe open, and he bypassed the gap in the circuit with some simple wiring. He was in before the camera swung around.

Harry ignored the steel boxes, the drawers of deeds and bonds, the jewellery, the personal effects. They were for the undiscerning thief; he hadn’t come here to plunder randomly, he had a target.

He made his way to the rack at the back of the walk in safe, and once again had to employ the magnets. He wore thin, anti-static gloves, the same shade of very dark blue as the rest of his outfit; black showed up too much in the dark. Few things are naturally black; the eye wonders about them and it draws rather than avoids attention. Very dark green is best, but blue suited Harry better.

He wore a suit, carefully designed so the collar folded about his neck, hiding the shirt and tie completely, his cuffs unfolding forward for the same purpose. It took him about fifteen seconds to go from respectability to cat-burglar. Even his soundless, soft-soled shoes had leather uppers. He wore a gauzy sort of hood that he could see through easily but left his face a blur on most cameras. It was rare a camera even caught a glimpse of him, however.

A fingerprint lock confronted him. Shame they weren’t yet worth the money, and people, even Russian oligarchs, left fingerprints behind _everywhere_.

The lock accepted the plastic fingerprint first try, and Harry pulled open the rack of paintings. They were all neatly stacked in their frames, kept apart by little spacers. He was careful not to go near the humidity sensors; the last thing he wanted was someone taking a look because the atmosphere was slightly wrong.

He knew, roughly, what was in here, but it was information pieced together second hand; private individuals like the one he was burgling right now weren’t obliged to publish a catalogue of their fine art collections. It was always possible to be surprised.

Although he was not relying on any sort of timer, Harry moved swiftly. He breathed. He’d spent a good three minutes synchronising his breath with camera; the longer he took the more likely it would fall out of synch. He’d only get one shot at walking away; the camera had to be panning across the paintings on the walls when he stepped out of the safe.

He didn’t even have to think about it; his entire body hummed with restrained adrenaline. He had to be able to react to almost anything almost instantly. He slid the paintings back, one by one. He didn’t always take the most valuable; he chose by instinct, instinct that occasionally drove Merlin up the wall but if he wanted something else he could go and steal it himself.

An oil painting by Francis Bacon was the second artwork from the bottom, and Harry made his decision. He lifted the painting out, and swiftly moved the one beneath it (a rather nice impressionist; no time to identify it) up so the gap disappeared. It was these simple, thoughtful touches that could make all the difference. It amazed him how long it could take for anyone to notice what he’d stolen, if they ever did.

He only glanced at his prize to make sure it was in one piece, before putting everything else back the way he’d found it, re-arming the locks.

Breathe.

The painting wasn’t heavy, but he held it carefully.

Breathe.

His hand hovered over the door to the safe.

Breathe, and go.

It swung shut behind him, he yanked his devices free with one smooth movement, and stepped back the way he’d came. Only when he was out of view did he look at the camera. Breathe. Yes, still in synch.

He allowed himself a tiny smile.

Down a staircase, out the window he came in, carefully feeding the painting through first, making sure it was secure. There was another camera near the gate. A security firm patrolled occasionally too. Harry had his waterproof leather case waiting by the fence. The painting went in it, strapped in securely, and then Harry himself went over, after listening to make sure the coast was clear.

As soon as his feet touched pavement, he pulled off the hood, folded back his cuffs, opened and smoothed down his collar, and strolled off; a gentleman with an oversized leather case.

He rejoined the crowded streets for a while before hailing a cab and simply going home.

“Merlin.”

Harry loosened his tie with his left hand, holding the phone to his ear with his right as he stared at the painting. He’d set it up in what was technically his basement, but it had none of the usual clutter of basements, even the vast underground halls of this part of London. The walls were a subtle shade off pure white and the room was almost entirely empty, save for an easel, forever reserved for his latest haul, and some indirect lighting. There were hardly any shadows here.

“What do you want at this hour?” Merlin asked grumpily. Merlin wasn’t his real name; Harry knew his real name but honestly preferred Merlin and he suspected Merlin did too. Merlin was an art dealer, an art dealer so respectable he’d gone right past respectability and come out the other side and was now happily occupying the position of You’d Better Have Cast Iron Proof Because I Have a Lot of Important Friends.

He was also Harry’s best friend.

“There’s a problem,” Harry said.

“Then why the hell are you calling me? I assume your accounts are empty and you’re on the way to the tropics by now, unless you’re calling from the station in which case get a lawyer and we’re only casual acquaintances anyway.”

“No, not with the acquisition. There’s something wrong with the painting.” Harry leaned in so close his nose was practically touching the canvas. Then he leaned back and tilted his head and squinted. It didn’t do him any more good then than it had the first dozen times he’d tried it. “I think it’s a fake.”

“A bold claim from someone who is not an expert,” Merlin said, in the tone of an expert. “Why do you think that? Is the paint still wet?”

“I’ve never thought much of Francis Bacon. I’ve never liked any of his work,” Harry said. “But I like this one.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s got depth, and life. It’s not colourful by any means, but there is colour in it. I sense frustration, like it’s reaching out off the canvas and trying to claw your face off.”

Merlin clearly had stopped listening at some point because when Harry paused he rattled off the known provenance of the painting, adding, “It seems unlikely to be a forgery with that sort of pedigree. I know that dealer and he’s no fool.”

Harry made a non-committal noise.

“On the other hand, there is a strange lack of scholarship surrounding this painting. How odd.” Merlin was starting to sound more awake. “I don’t suppose you’d object if I came over for a nightcap?”

“By all means,” Harry said. He wouldn’t be going to bed until nearly dawn; on the nights he worked he was too wired to sleep.

“It’s going to keep me awake if I don’t get a look at it. I’ll see you soon.”

Merlin arrived half an hour later, dressed in his usual uniform of skinny jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He had a large case under his arm and a laptop bag slung over his other shoulder; the tools of his trade.

Harry welcomed him in and offered him a drink. He asked for coffee and by the time Harry returned to the basement with it, Merlin had opened his case and was examining the painting with a magnifying glass.

“I want to take it out of its frame,” Merlin said, accepting the mug. “I trust you don’t object.”

“Go ahead,” Harry said. The two of them took the painting down and Harry assisted while Merlin removed it.

Then Harry went upstairs, because Merlin got tetchy if someone watched him while he was working. About forty minutes later Merlin came upstairs and swapped his coffee mug for a tumbler of scotch.

“I hate to admit it,” Merlin said. “But I think you’re right. It’s very good, but I’m not convinced by the aging.”

Harry smiled genially.

“Don’t look so smug. This is a problem. How can we sell this now? I can’t in good conscience sell a forgery.”

“Even if it’s stolen,” Harry said.

“ _Especially_ if it’s stolen. These aren’t the sort of people you try and fool, although I have no doubt they’d be convinced. A secondary issue; the painting’s history has been faked as well, by someone with either access to a lot of records or rather good hacking skills. I’m going to have to be a bit more careful from now on.”

“I see.” Harry wasn’t all that interested in Merlin’s problems.

“Harry, I don't feel you've grasped the real issue here. That painting is a problem. It’s red hot and we can’t sell it.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I suppose we could put it in the incinerator.”

“Absolutely not! It’s a work of art.”

“It’s a fake.”

Harry shrugged. “So?”

“What are you going to do with it then?”

“I’ll keep it, of course.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “You never keep art. You line your walls with butterflies instead.”

“Well, I’m keeping this one,” Harry decided. The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea.

“You’ll have to be careful, Harry.”

“I wasn’t planning on inviting my neighbours over to look at it.”

“I bet you don’t even know their names.”

“They’re snobs, all of them. Why would I want to?”

“All right,” Merlin said, finishing his drink. “You will be you. There’s no profit to be had out of tonight. I’m going home.”

After he’d gone Harry went back downstairs and spent a very long time trying to decide on which of his four pristine walls the painting should hang.

Thieving wasn’t like regular work. It was more like art; the time had to be right, all the pieces in place. Harry had been doing it a very long time, and would sometimes go months between jobs, waiting like a spider in a web. Often Merlin was the one who tipped him off, although he had his own various sources, and very occasionally someone would contact Merlin for a contract job, but Harry tended to avoid those; if a client was that desperate for a piece, they’d probably tried approaching the current owner first, and the latter would be on their guard.

As as single gentleman of leisure, Harry spent most of his days doing whatever he wanted to. He couldn’t call himself rich when compared to his victims or customers, but he was comfortably well off, as long as he kept what he considered his extravagance restrained.

He was having breakfast in his dressing gown one morning, sitting in his bright and cheerful kitchen and idly going through the latest Sotheby’s catalogue on his tablet when he saw something interesting. So interesting, he forgot about his second slice of toast and thick-cut marmalade and half cup of Fortnum's Darjeeling and went straight up to his bedroom to get dressed.

Merlin nearly dropped his phone when he spotted Harry at the auction. The auction itself hadn’t started yet, and participants were milling around the gallery, staring at their catalogues and eyeing off the competition. Harry didn’t mill about; he found exactly what he was looking for and stood in front of it.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked in an undertone, having gradually worked his way around to Harry’s side, pausing every thirty seconds to say hello to or brush off people he knew or who claimed to know him.

“What do you think?” Harry asked, nodding at the piece.

“Picasso. Minor piece. He probably knocked this one out before breakfast.”

“So you think it’s genuine?”

Merlin looked at him. “Oh, so _that’s_ what your problem is. Look, it’s a Picasso. He had a long and prolific career that spanned a multitude of styles and was the kind of troll who’d sign paintings that weren’t his if he liked them enough. It’s probably real, mainly because Sotheby’s isn’t in the habit of selling shoddy goods.”

“We know they’ve been recently fooled, however. And I like this one.”

Merlin’s phone chimed and he glanced at it and shook his head. “I’ve got to go. Buy it if you want, but I’d rather you find something else to obsess about if you’re that bored. Have you considered One Direction? My niece tells me they’re all the rage.”

Harry had absolutely no intention of buying anything, and he left before the auction actually started.

“Oh yes it shouldn’t be hard to shift that,” Merlin said, a week or so later as they met for one of their regular lunches. “Recently sold for thirty five thousand. You were at the auction in fact.” He cut himself off and lowered his fork, fixing Harry with a stern glare. “I know you’re aware it’s risky to take more than one painting from the same place, but you have a Picasso sitting in your basement, don’t you?”

“It’s not a Picasso,” Harry said serenely.

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “I’m bringing over my kit.”

Harry was in his living room checking his emails when Merlin stalked up from the basement and flung himself irritably into the other armchair.

“I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

“I just recognised the artist,” Harry said, shrugging. “Even if they were playing in a different style.”

“It makes more sense than you suddenly being able to recognise forgeries that have fooled experts on sight. You think it’s the same artist and I see no reason to disagree.”

Harry set his laptop aside. “One thing is bothering me,” Harry said. “Where is this artist’s original work?”

“Clearly not in the sort of galleries you frequent. It makes sense; if he or she was making money legitimately there would be no reason to paint fakes and risk a prison sentence.”

“I’ve been looking, Merlin. Not just in the usual places. I’ve signed up to a great many mailing lists; small galleries and school events—they might still be a student. These works are recent.”

“Have you actually attended any exhibitions?” Merlin asked.

“More than I care to remember. In fact, there’s one opening tonight.” Harry looked at his watch. “Plenty of time.”

“Harry, you need to think of your health; the food at those things is always awful. And the wine.”

“Oh, I’m always a teetotaller at those occasions; I don’t have a death wish.” Harry shrugged, “What else would you have me do?”

“I’m just not sure why you’re bothering,” Merlin said. “You’ve got their work.”

“Don’t you think the artist deserves recognition?”

“I don’t think they want recognition, Harry. They’re signing other people’s names under their work.”

“They deserve recognition,” Harry said. “They deserve to know one person out there has been reached by their art. They’re not just shallowly aping the masters, they’re putting themselves into it. Isn’t that what defines real art?”

“It’s too early in the day for the ‘what is art’ argument,” Merlin said. “And you have an engagement this evening.”

He gave him a sly look, “Want to come with me? Show your famous dome at a place like that and see how many of them brown their trousers?”

Merlin frowned and checked his phone. “Oh, I can cancel that, I suppose.” He looked at Harry over the rim of his glasses. “All right, just this once. You’re buying dinner afterwards though.”

All in all Harry thought it was a very amusing evening, but he didn’t find his forger.

He didn’t stop looking, either, but time passed and the seasons rolled on, and the high streets started putting up their Christmas lights disgracefully early as usual. The forger remained in the back of Harry’s mind, but by now it was a sort of hobby and Merlin was slightly relieved he always managed to spot them.

Things always turn up where you least expect to find them.

Harry was taking more risks of late. There were some paintings he simply refused to let slip through his grasp, regardless of how difficult they were to steal. Which is why he’d risked breaking into a gallery in the first place; he preferred private homes, but the paintings were due to be flown out to Dubai the next day and circumstances had forced his hand.

Which is why he was navigating a stolen car in an unfamiliar part of London, things having gone decidedly tits-up when, instead of his diamond-tipped cutter neatly carving a hole in the plane of glass the goddamn thing had shattered and alerted the security. Harry had abandoned the painting and simply got out; he knew when to cut and run and he knew the police would have been called automatically as well. Soon it would be advantageous to cut and run from this car, too.

He was considering whether or not to make another attempt on the painting at the airport; he’d done it before but that was years ago and airport security had improved significantly since then and it might honestly be more sensible to follow it to Dubai and have a crack at it there, he admitted. And then he drove beneath an overpass and completely forgot about it.

Because he’d found what he was looking for.

An original.

He stepped on the brake and pulled over, despite this not being a place one was normally allowed to park. It was late, and there was hardly any traffic.

Splashed across the side of the overpass was a painting, lurid colours and distorted, almost abstract figures, looking lost in a faintly luminescent fog; Harry wasn’t sure how the effect was even achieved. But besides the mere facts of it, Harry could feel the creative energy behind it, and he’d know it anywhere. He started to smile.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Plain as the nose on your face when you think about it.” He gave the artwork one last glance and got back in the car, abandoning it a little while later and taking the tube home.

The next day he started early, dressed as a pilot with a little suitcase, and pulled off one of the neatest and ballsiest heists of his career, even if he did have to take the painting out of its frame (right in the hold of the aircraft, risking discovery every second) and roll it up to fit in his luggage. He knew it was nowhere near as old as it was supposed to be, however, and he wasn’t sure, as he took a taxi home, if his pure enjoyment of life at that moment was down to his own skill or to his extraordinarily lucky discovery the night before.

He felt, in a word, inspired.

“What do you know about street art?” Harry asked.

“That most of it’s shite,” Merlin said. Harry could hear him tapping away at a screen in the background.

“That’s true of all art though.”

“You’re not wrong. I take it you’ve found your forger?”

“Mm. Signs themselves off with a ‘K’ on its side. I’ve found two works so far. I was wondering if you could help me find more.”

“Not really my department, mate.” Merlin said. “Except on rare occasions, you can’t sell vandalism.”

“Don't be a snob. I suppose I’ll just have to keep looking.”

“Don’t get mugged, Harry.”

No one actually tried to mug him, although Harry was fairly sure a few of the people he met thought about it. Mostly they tried to sell him things, either themselves or drugs, and no one who was willing to talk to him knew much about the street artists.

They were there own little urban tribe, and they were not interested in talking to someone like Harry.

He saw a lot of truly awful street art, but it wasn’t all bad either. When he found one of the forger’s works he’d write down where it was and come back in daylight to look at it properly. He’d stand in front of it, looking at it from different distances and angles, he’d listen to the traffic and imagine the artist working away, unseen and unnoticed in the dark.

He was retracing old ground one evening when he saw a new mural had been started. He forced himself to walk slowly as he took in the way the painted strokes seem to crackle with energy. It was simple enough, a meteor hurling itself at a city, but it threw off sparks like fireworks; it didn’t strike Harry as necessarily threatening. The city itself was unfinished, the buildings only roughly blocked in and the painting as yet unsigned. But he knew who the artist was.

“You alright, mate?”

Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the painting, but he’d heard footsteps and shifted his grip on his umbrella handle slightly, although he didn't sense any threat. For a moment he’d hoped the young man in the jeans and trainers—but no. He wasn’t carrying a bag or anything that might have held paints. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the hood of which shadowed most of his face.

“I’m admiring the work,” Harry said.

“Yeah, people have seen you about. You kind of stand out, you know what I mean?”

“I’m afraid I do. I know this artist,” Harry said. “I mean, I recognise their work; they sign themselves with the ‘K’ on its side, don’t they?”

“Kingsman. That’s what the K stands for.”

Harry looked at him sharply, and then turned to face him properly. “Do you know this individual?”

“No,” he said defensively. “I mean, like, not personally. You see his stuff around.”

“Could you pass on a message?”

“Are you deaf? I don’t know ‘im to take down messages.”

“Well,” Harry said patiently. “If you see him or one of his friends could you pass on a message?”

“I guess.”

“Tell him.” Harry gazed up at the painting. “Tell him he has a fan who is looking forward to the finished work.”

“Here, are you like a talent scout or something?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m offering nothing but my sincere admiration.” He could almost feel the young man’s scepticism radiating off him. “Well, thank you. Goodnight.” Harry wanted to ask if he could direct him to any more Kingsman works, but he felt he’d pushed his luck enough for now.

Harry came back a week later to check on the graffiti. He hoped he hadn’t scared Kingsman off, and he was relieved to see the work had progressed; the meteor now reflected off a dozen glass-sided towers; Harry recognised the skyline of his own city.

Figures had been added in the foreground, serenely watching the meteor approach, ordinary people dressed in ordinary clothes, a child and her carer, a construction worker, a teenager, an old man, and in the shadows closest to the city, a man in a suit watched the people watching, and his face was Harry’s own.

Harry inhaled sharply and took a step back, glancing up and down the street.

“Took you long enough.”

Kingsman was perched on a wall tall enough to be out of line of sight unless someone was deliberately looking up. There was a paper bag from one of the fast food places next to him, and Harry guessed he'd been up there a while.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Harry said, his heart soaring.

“We didn’t have an appointment or nothing. It’s not a great likeness; didn’t really get much of a look at ya.”

“It was you all along.”

“Yeah, course. I was really curious, hearing about you hanging about. Had to see for myself.”

“And?”

“I dunno, mate. Who the fuck are you?”

“Harry Hart. And you are?”

“A right charlie if I told you who I was.”

“I’m not a policeman.”

“Yeah, that's for sure.” He rocked back on his seat and looked down the street and then without warning levered himself off the wall and dropped to the ground, landing in a low crouch. When he stood up again, Harry realised he was a few inches shorter than he was, early twenties, and his hair was gold where it caught the light. Rather defiantly, he'd pushed his hood back, giving Harry a view of a strong jawline and a mouth twisted into a provocative smile. Pretty as a picture, Harry thought. “I’m Eggsy. As if that’ll tell you anythin’. But that's the name I answer to.”

That was the only name he needed. Harry held out his hand and after a moment Eggsy shook it. Cold fingers; he'd been out here a while and probably holding his phone rather than keeping them in his pockets.

“If you already have a nickname, why Kingsman?” Harry asked.

“Cause ‘Eggsy’ sounds too much like ‘Banksy,’” he replied with a roll of his eyes and his shoulder. “Don’t want people to think I’m trying to copy him.”

“No one could think that,” Harry assured him, a declaration that seemed to make the young man oddly embarrassed and maybe pleased. “I’ve got something to show you, if you’ll permit me.”

“Yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, and looked Harry up and down.

“It’s quite far. I’m afraid we’ll have to take a cab.”

Eggsy thought about this for a while and shrugged, “As long as you pay for it.”

Which is how Harry Hart found himself sharing a cab with his favourite artist. When he’d given his address to the driver Eggsy’s eyebrows had shot right up and he’d been texting the rest of the journey, presumably telling someone where he was going. He didn’t ask any questions, he just shot Harry a series of contemplative looks, which Harry returned with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Eggsy didn't look all that reassured, if he was honest.

“This is some fucking neighbourhood,” Eggsy said, hunching his shoulders as he waited for Harry to pay the cabbie. “This is some fucking house,” he added as Harry led him up the driveway. “What exactly am I doing here?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “You can leave the door open if you’d prefer an escape route,” he said.

Eggsy scowled, but Harry noticed he did leave the front door ajar when they went in. Eggsy waited, suspicions and clearly uncomfortable as Harry took off his scarf and greatcoat and hung both these items on the hooks in the hallway. He beckoned Eggsy to follow him and Eggsy’s dubious look turned to outright alarm when Harry manipulated the electronic lock that secured his basement, the door sliding back to reveal a flight of carpeted steps. Harry smiled at him and went down first, turning on the lights as he did so.

“Come along, Eggsy. You've come this far,” Harry called up when he didn't hear Eggsy following.

“This is really fucking weird.” Nevertheless, Harry heard him descending.

Harry put his back to one of the walls, and simply watched as Eggsy's steps faltered as he entered the room. His eyes widened in alarm and he stared at Harry like a wild animal.

They're green, Harry realised. The colour stood out quite clearly in the clear, perfect lighting of his basement.

“You're not in trouble, Eggsy. I told you, I'm a fan. And a collector.” He allowed himself a smile, pleased at last he'd had months to acquire a good half a dozen of Eggsy's forgeries before finding the man himself.

Eggsy's shoulders dropped slightly and he took a step further in, stopping and looking about him.

“You knew these were all mine?”

“Your mastery of style is incredible,” Harry said. “But your energy is unmistakable.”

Eggsy shook his head, and tried to say something and failed and gazed at his own paintings like he'd never seen them before. His eyes were shining.

And then they narrowed.

“Wait a minute. How do you have all these? This doesn't make any sense.”

“I acquired them.” Eggsy rolled his eyes at his non-answer. “From their rightful owners,” Harry added.

That made him pay attention. “You're a burglar?”

“Technically. But my only interest is in art. And now we are both aware of the other's membership of the criminal fraternity you can relax about me suddenly deciding to hand you over to the authorities.”

Eggsy frowned, but Harry could see his gaze being dragged back to the paintings. He wandered among them, occasionally glancing at Harry.

“Wow,” he said finally, with a kind of helpless shrug. “I can't believe it. It's like, it's an exhibition.” He pressed his hand to his mouth and blinked and deliberately faced away from Harry, and Harry basked in it.

When he looked like he'd recovered Harry added, “You deserve one. Under your own name; whichever one you prefer, of course.”

“Thanks,” Eggsy said. He sniffed and took a deep breath and collected himself before glancing at Harry over his shoulder. “So do you have a catsuit or what?”

“I prefer to think of myself as more of a gentleman thief,” Harry said. “Like in _Ocean's 11_?”

Eggsy shrugged.

“ _Pink Panther_? _The Thomas Crown Affair_?”

“Oh, like Cary Grant in _To Catch A Thief_.”

He looked so pleased with himself Harry could only smile back. “Well, you're full of surprises.” Eggsy gives him a dubious look. “Would you like a drink?”

“Ta.”

Harry indicated he should go first and he turned off the lights as they left, and locked both the basement and the front door, now Eggsy seemed reassured he wasn't about to be dissected or eaten.

“Thieving's nice work then?” Eggsy asked, perched gingerly on Harry's sofa like he was worried he'd break it. He looked about with an impressed air.

“Not quite that nice, I inherited this place. But I do all right.” He handed Eggsy a glass of scotch without thinking about it. He should have asked what his preference was but he wasn't really thinking clearly. He felt like he had finally coaxed a phoenix down from the sky, or some similar act. “How's forgery?”

Eggsy shrugged. “Better 'n my other options. I'm saving it all for now; I don't want to have to say where the money comes from, but it's not enough to _do_ anything with. And my fence takes a cut.”

“So does mine,” Harry said with a commiserating look.

Eggsy grinned, apparently delighted by the whole concept of his profession. He sipped his drink and sat on the couch a little more comfortably, but Harry could see he wasn't at home here. Not yet. He was a sprawler, probably. A feet on the table sort of young man.

“So, what actually do you want? Why am I here?”

Harry shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you. Get to know you, if you're amenable, but mostly, I just wanted you to know that I saw what you were doing. I recognised it, even if it was never meant to be recognised.”

“What did I do?”

“You made art. Forgery's not easy. It takes skill and knowledge and creativity and most forgers I imagine try and submerge their own creative impulses below what they imagine the artist they're imitating's are. You do not. You cloak yourself in another style and you're very good, but you hold a lantern under your cloak and I can see the light. In some cases it's an improvement on the original artist.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy raised an eyebrow.

“Have I ever told you how much I dislike Francis Bacon?”

“Harry we've only just met, you can't have 'ever told me' anything.”

“Would you like to hear, then?” Harry asked.

Eggsy leaned back a bit more comfortably and his legs fell open slightly. “Yeah. Okay.”

They talked about art. Eggsy had done his research; he had to, to be such a successful forger, and Harry had studied it when he was young, and they made sweeping judgements and played Devil's Advocate and at some point they decided they were hungry. Harry offered to make them something but Eggsy suggested they just order pizza.

Harry did not eat pizza very often. Certainly not the kind that was delivered to one's door. He had a very physically demanding job and at his age he had to put a fair amount of effort into keeping in shape for it. But just this once.

They moved the conversation to Harry's kitchen and ate what Harry considered an excess of cheese off china plates. Harry asked him about his street art and Eggsy told stories of artworks and escapades and disasters; some his own, some of other artists he knew, and Harry was delighted. He'd always preferred anti-establishment art, but had vaguely dismissed most street art as 'shite', as Merlin would put it.

He admitted as such and Eggsy laughed and said it was only to be expected at his age and Harry pointed out that they'd found graffiti at Pompeii and Eggsy said his point still stood, a cheeky grin on his face.

He was this close to putting his feet on the furniture, Harry was sure.

“So how did you get into forging then?” Harry asked.

Eggsy gave him an apologetic look. “I can't tell ya, bruv. Cause that would implicate me friends, you know?”

“I do. Say no more.” And they did say no more because a rubbish truck rumbled by and Eggsy started and checked his phone and realised it was nearly dawn.

“Ah, sorry for keeping you up,” he said, looking a bit dazed.

“Oh, I often stay up late,” Harry said.

“This is a bit past late,” Eggsy said, a bit dubiously, like he didn't quite believe him. Honestly, he wasn't _that_ old, or respectable. “I really should be going. I usually tell Mum if I'm gonna stay out all night. I hope she's not too worried.”

“Go,” Harry said. “And thank you.”

“Yeah well, this was fun.”

“Then we shall have to do it again,” Harry said mildly, but his eyes were on Eggsy's face.

“Yeah.” Eggsy smiled at him, pleased and sweet.

And that was how Harry found himself with Eggsy's number in his phone, a kitchen that smelled like grease, and the knowledge that he was just possibly a bit quite taken with his new acquaintance. He went to bed around the time the rest of the world was getting out of it, but that wasn't particularly unusual. What was unusual was that he had trouble getting to sleep, replaying the events of the evening over in his head and anticipating the next time he might meet Eggsy.

“What sort of name is Eggsy?” Merlin asked, as they had lunch at their usual table.

“What sort of name is Merlin?” Harry responded, and Merlin couldn't answer that so he tried a different tack.

“How old his he?”

Harry refused to be shamed; it just didn't come naturally to him. “I don't know. Early twenties.”

“He's pretty talented,” Merlin said. Harry had taken a few photographs of Eggsy's outdoor work, even if they didn't do it justice and shown them to Merlin, who'd refused to accompany him on a walking tour of the same.

“He is,” Harry said, poking at the salad. “He's marvellous.”

“And you've fallen in love with him, I should have seen _that_ coming.”

“I only met him yesterday,” Harry protested. Honestly, love was a bit much.

“Yes, but you've been pursuing him for months.” Merlin sipped his wine. “And I know you've been bracing yourself, nay, resigning yourself to disappointment, and then he turns out to be everything you ever dreamed and within five minutes of meeting him you show him exactly where the evidence of your crimes is and then you admit to them I mean for fuck's sake, Harry!” Merlin had started off relatively mild but by the end of his tirade he was managing to practically shout in such a low tone the people in the tables around them wouldn't have noticed unless they'd been watching his expression turn murderous.

“I didn't tell him about you. And he's just as implicated as I am.”

“You don't even know who he is or where he lives. All he has to do is make an anonymous tip.”

“He wouldn't do that.”

“I suppose we're going to find out, either way.”

“I may never see him again, you realise,” Harry said, as if the thought didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “After what you showed him? If he’s half the artist you think he is, he’ll be back. Not many get an audience like you.”

Harry refused to be drawn either way, but he felt somewhat relieved a few days later when Eggsy texted him, wondering if he’d like to come out one night and see him do some work. If he was interested, and not too busy of course. Harry could read the thread of uncertainty in Eggsy’s words, and he moved to assure him that nothing would delight him more.

“I didn’t really expect you’d be wearing a suit, mate,” Eggsy greeted him. They were meeting outside a tube station but Harry had taken a taxi. Eggsy was wearing the uniform of his age and class; trainers and jeans and a hoodie, but they were all in dark colours, and he had a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Am I overdressed?” Harry asked.

“Just a little.”

“We are indulging in criminal activities, are we not?” Harry asked.

“Well, yeah, if you want to make it sound like something dirty.”

“Then this really is the most suitable thing in my wardrobe.”

“You wear that while you’re working?”

Harry demonstrated the way the collar folded around and Eggsy looked suitably impressed.

“So no catsuit,” he said, as they walked off.

Harry merely sighed, and enjoyed Eggsy’s grin.

Eggsy led him to a stretch of wall near a park, and Harry asked if he wasn’t going to continue his other work.

“Well, I will.” Eggsy set down his bag, the cans inside clinking together. “But it’s all wrong now. Like, I didn’t know who you were when I painted you in and like I said it ain’t a great likeness. I gotta think about it.” Eggsy looked up and down the street. “This is kinda, a bit risky, but I just want to do something quick that lots of people will see, yeah? Can you keep an eye out for me?”

“Of course.”

Harry stood back a little way, and Eggsy got to work. Neither of them said a word, Eggsy concentrating and Harry enjoying the swift, deft movements of his body as he stroked the paint on, sometimes using his hands to mask bits he didn’t want painted. He clearly already had a plan in his head, rarely hesitating. Harry watched a strange, greenish face start to loom out of the wall. While it was still indistinct, something off about its proportions that made it look like it was moving, he started framing it in leaves.

“Lot of kids come by here,” Eggsy said at one point, pausing to wipe his hands and examine his progress. “Wanted something a bit storybook, you know? A bit magic. I always liked seein’ new stuff when I was a kid. And like, if you look at it from down here.” He knelt on the ground. “And look up, it’s like-” He broke off as Harry bent down beside him and tilted his head.

“Ah.” The odd proportions suddenly made perfect sense, and the distorted smile was clearly a secretive grin. “You’re so clever.”

“It ain’t done yet,” Eggsy mumbled and scrambled to his feet to get back to work.

He didn’t get to finish it.

Harry heard a car turn the corner; he’d been keeping an ear out but they were mostly in the shadows and all Eggsy did was hold still when someone went by. Harry was enthralled, occasionally moving to a different spot to get more of a look at Eggsy’s face than the actual painting. So the car was halfway down the street when he glanced at it.

“Shit. We have to go.” It only took a split second to recognise the reflective paint on the front of the police car.

Eggsy scooped up his bag and was off running, and then he broke stride and looked back for Harry.

Harry overtook him. “Just go,” he said as he sprinted past.

“Jesus.” He heard faintly as Eggsy scrambled to catch up with him. He heard Eggsy’s footsteps at his heels and then Eggsy overtook him in turn; as fleet and long-legged as he was, Harry was no match for adrenaline powered youth, at least over short distances.

As soon as they were out of sight Harry pulled up.

“I’ll delay them and meet you later,” he said.

“What?” Eggsy looked horrified. “I ain’t leaving-”

“Do you really think they'll arrest someone like me for vandalism? Get moving!”

Eggsy didn’t look very happy but he did as he was asked and Harry made a show of running after him and when he saw the police car he stopped and flagged it down and wheezed dramatically and wanted to report a couple of pickpockets and no wait, he still had his wallet, well these _youths_ practically ran him over and he thought they went that way and they’d _pushed_ him and that was clearly assault and he generally made himself the sort of person that made police everywhere sigh long-sufferingly and tell themselves they didn’t get paid enough.

When he’d decided he didn’t have time to go to the station and make a statement after all, and he’d bid his new friends farewell (he knew not to push it, and ended the interview with a fond declaration that they were good chaps and did a splendid job really and they made their escape before he could launch into another long-winded monologue,) he strolled away and texted Eggsy and they met up a nearby kebab shop.

Eggsy had cleaned himself up and said he’d stashed his paints, no worries, greeting Harry with a delighted grin.

“You can really leg it,” Eggsy said.

“I’ve been running rings around the fuzz since before you were born,” Harry said, and then winced, as the phrase made him sound positively ancient. Eggsy laughed at his expression.

“Here, do you want a kebab?”

He didn’t really.

They got kebabs, and strolled along eating them.

“Sorry this didn’t really turn out like I’d hoped,” Eggsy said.

“My fault really,” Harry said. “I should have seen them coming, but I was too busy watching you.”

Eggsy ducked his head slightly. “So it wasn't too boring? It was so dark I wasn't even sure you could see anything.”

“I had a lovely time.”

“I nearly got you arrested.”

Harry looked at him, “Oh, I’ve come much closer than that.”

“Yeah?”

Harry told him about some of his exploits and Eggsy clearly didn’t quite believe everything he said, which was fine because Harry was embellishing his stories anyway and they ended up sitting at a bus stop ignoring the buses as they talked. It was cold enough that their breath steamed in the air, and they kept their hands tucked away in their pockets. They sat there until Harry could feel the warmth seeping through his shoulder from Eggsy’s.

He felt young. It was the strangest sensation.

“I’ve never been quite game to go back since,” Harry said. “Which is a shame; the food was lovely.”

Eggsy smiled at him, but didn’t say anything and Harry could see he was getting restive, paying less attention. It was to be expected, but he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed in himself.

“I’ve kept you too long,” Harry said. “I should probably head home.” He stood up, and his shoulder felt cold.

“Yeah, um. Harry?” Eggsy stayed where he was, and looked up at him. His expression was deeply uncomfortable. “Can I ask you a favour?”

“Name it,” Harry said.

“Well, would you sit for me some time?” He couldn’t quite look Harry in the eye as he asked.

“You want to paint me?”

“I did a shit job last time. If it's too weird don't worry about it.”

“I’d love to,” Harry said. “I don’t have a day job, so just name the time and place.”

“Yeah? Okay.” Eggsy grinned. “I’ll text you when I’ve got a space. Can’t really take you home. Not sure what me mum would think. Well, I can guess what she’d think. Anyway. Thanks, I really appreciate it. I don’t get a lot of practice; I mean, I try and draw my little sister but she won’t hold still for it.” He shrugged awkwardly.

They said farewell and Eggsy got on the next bus.

To Harry’s surprise, the space that Eggsy eventually found was in Oxford, on the university grounds. Harry liked it here, although he rarely had reason to come. At this time of year the campus was mostly empty; the students gone for the winter break. Harry enjoyed the fantasy that he worked here, or studied here, or belonged here as something other than an infrequent visitor.

He could have made the fantasy real, of course, but he'd learned the academic life was not for him a long time ago, no matter how much he looked the part.

Eggsy had texted him a room number and Harry wandered up and down empty lecture halls getting thoroughly lost until he managed to find a student who could direct him. He knocked on a wooden door inset with frosted glass and Eggsy opened it a few moments later, a wave of warmth and the smell of turpentine accompanying his pleased smile.

They were in a studio. Half-finished works, some on easels, were scattered around the room. Paints and rolls of paper and canvases were everywhere. There were a couple of space heaters keeping the place warm, despite the wooden floor and the large windows in the ceiling that let in a cold but brilliant winter sun.

“I didn’t know you went to Oxford,” Harry said, peeling off his gloves and unwinding his scarf.

Eggsy rolled his eyes. “I have a friend who does. She lets me in. Once you’re inside no one asks how you got here.” He shrugged. “If you look the part.”

Harry hadn’t failed to notice Eggsy’s outfit. The trainers were the same, but he was wearing skinny jeans rather than loose ones, and he’d swapped the hoodie for a sweater that clearly wasn’t worn often, given how soft it looked.

Eggsy looked a bit self-conscious. “I feel like a bit of a wanker, really.”

“You look fine,” Harry said.

“Well.” Eggsy rubbed the back of his neck. It was endearing that he clearly had no idea what to do with compliments. “So do you. Do you ever wear anything other than suits?” He waved Harry towards a couch set under one of the windows, where the light was best.

“Sometimes I wear nothing at all,” Harry said, and since he was facing the other way he allowed himself a smile at Eggsy’s sudden intake of breath.

“It ain’t that kind of modelling job,” he said, sounding rather strangled. “I mean, I wouldn’t object.” He recovered fast, and when Harry sat on the couch Eggsy’s chin was raised and he was wearing a challenging expression. “But the door doesn’t lock.”

Harry met his eyes and Eggsy looked away first.

“Anyway, uh, just sit comfortably. You don't have to hold perfectly still or nothing, I'm just sketching. There's a kettle in the corner if you feel like tea. Did you bring a book?”

“I brought my Kindle.” Harry settled back on the couch. “Is this where you do your paying work?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Eggsy said softly. “It’s nice to work in a proper studio. Like a proper artist.”

“Eggsy,” Harry said sternly.

“I know, I know.” Eggsy took out a sketchbook from his bag, and some pencils. “I'm an artist.” He stared at Harry for a few moments, not looking all that convinced. Then he took a deep breath and put graphite to paper.

“Have you ever done any art?” Eggsy asked, a little while later.

“No, I've always been wretched at it,” Harry said, not looking up from his ebook. “When did you start?”

“I dunno. All kids like painting, right? So I was always doing it. Kept me quiet, and it meant Mum could watch old movies on TV rather than sitting through cartoons, you know?” His hand kept moving as he talked, Harry would look up occasionally but didn't want to distract him by staring.

“There was this book,” Eggsy said, and his hand stopped and his gaze unfocused. “It was _A Field Guide to Mushrooms and Toadstools of Great Britain._ It was ancient. I found it in the library and I didn't really care for mushrooms, but they had these drawings, and photographs, and I remember thinking how much clearer the drawings were than the photos.” He met Harry's gaze and shrugged and flipped the page in his sketchbook.

“I guess it made an impression on me,” he muttered.

Harry smiled. He's the real thing, he thought.

Some time later Eggsy sighed and put his book aside to stretched his arms and Harry relaxed a bit. Despite what Eggsy had said, he'd been holding himself fairly still.

“Whatcha reading?” Eggsy asked.

“ _Fifty Shades of Grey,_ ” Harry said casually, and then looked up to see what sort of face Eggsy was making. He wasn't disappointed. Eggsy's eyes were wide and his mouth opened slightly, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones.

Then he shut his mouth with a snap and shook his head as he realised he'd been had. “You're such a fucking troll, Harry.”

Harry could see him second-guess his words, wondering if he'd overstepped the bounds of politeness. He smiled to let him know that he hadn't.

“I'm reading a John le Carré novel,” Harry said. “He manages to make spying seem simultaneously dull and terrifying, which is probably accurate.”

“Do you want some tea?” Eggsy asked.

Harry declined and watched Eggsy put on some water.

“How's the sketching going?” he asked.

Eggsy winced. “It ain't, really. You're kind of hard to get right. I'm not sure what I'm trying to draw. Maybe a break might help- oh there are biscuits.” He fished around in the packet for a while and then declared with a sigh that they were stale.

He slung his teabag into the bin and brought his mug back to the chair, curling his hands around it and scowling at his sketchbook.

“It's just frustrating,” Eggsy said. “I was really looking forward to drawing you in proper light and all and now it's not working.”

“I know that frustration,” Harry said. “I did fine art at university. Mostly out of envy, I think.”

“Did you like it?”

“Art, yes. University life, yes. Study, no. Study bores me.”

“How’d you become a thief then?” Eggsy asked. “Did you need the money?”

“Not really. Everyone needs money but I wasn’t destitute. When I was a student I spent my summers travelling around Europe ostensibly visiting art galleries.” He set his kindle aside. “In reality I spent more time at parties than at art galleries. I was in Barcelona. Friends of friends had invited me to this party at a mansion; it was a proper mansion, don’t get me wrong, but it was a proper party as well. Open bar, and self-service weed. Cocaine by request; it was the seventies so it wasn’t that unusual.”

Eggsy was hanging on to every word, occasionally remembering to drink his tea.

“Anyway, I’d had a bit to drink and I was exploring this place, really, and I found this painting. I don’t know who painted it; it was a pastoral scene. There was something about it that fascinated me. Over the course of the evening I kept coming back to it. And then eventually, I thought, why not take it? So I did.”

“I guess if everyone was that stoned they wouldn’t have noticed you walking out with it.”

“Oh my nerve broke halfway down the stairs and I put it back,” Harry said. “But for a moment it was mine. Art is so carefully curated, you know? I’d spent half my degree chasing the location of paintings down the years, and that painting had belonged to me and no one would ever know. I loved that idea. It haunted me.”

“So you started nicking them?”

“Mm, more or less. It didn’t count if I just put them back. And I wanted the money. I had no idea what I was doing, but luckily when I got caught I had enough on me to bribe the local police into telling me where I might find a fence. I got terribly ripped off though.”

“Mate it could have been a lot worse.”

“Indeed. I didn’t care. For the first time in my life I was doing something that was meaningful. Nothing else gives me satisfaction quite like it; the research, the planning, and then the act itself with all its attendant risks, and at the end a secret prize. It’s never really been about the money; I’m sure I could make more doing other things. Stealing other things.”

“Harry,” Eggsy said softly, leaning forward in his chair. His voice was low and his smile lazy. “You said you weren’t an artist.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah you are. Your art is stealing paintings.” He was beautiful, his eyes alight with his own cleverness, something impish and wild in them.

Harry shook his head, refused to be enchanted, despite the appeal of the idea. “How can it be art?”

“Artists make money sometimes, but that’s not why they do it. Art exists for its own sake, it’s a compulsion. If I didn’t do this, I’d be nothing.”

“That’s not true-”

“I’d _feel_ like nothing. Isn’t it like that for you? What would you do if you didn’t steal?”

“I don’t know.”

“See.” Eggsy leaned back in his chair, carefully setting his mug on the floor. “It’s who you are. You’re an artist. Anything can be art, right? Do you need someone in a gallery to certify it first?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “But you can’t just declare something art.”

“Why not? You declared my forgeries art. Everyone else in the industry would say they were fakes and rubbish.”

“They might not-”

“If I submitted them as me own work, they’d say I was just mindlessly copying the masters. The art is in fooling people as well, you know.”

Harry deflated somewhat. He couldn’t argue with that.

“I know what you are now,” Eggsy said, picking up his sketchbook. “Let’s give it another try.”

Despite Eggsy’s confidence, it wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. Eventually he sighed deeply and said he was too hungry to draw properly.

“Can I see?” Harry asked.

Eggsy’s forehead wrinkled. “Um. They’re not any good, Harry. It’s like, I’m just putting down what I see and nothing more. It’s just lifeless.”

Harry didn’t push the point.

“Better luck next time?”

“You’ll do this again?” Eggsy asked.

“I don’t see why not. It was a pleasant way to spend a morning.”

“It was,” Eggsy said.

They turned off the heaters and left everything no messier than when they’d arrived. Harry offered Eggsy a lift home but Eggsy declined.

“If people round where I live see you they’ll get all sorts of ideas,” Eggsy said. He didn’t look ashamed or even angry, just tired. “I don’t want to deal with it.”

“I understand. I’ll see you soon then?”

“Yeah. Cheers, Harry.”

Harry watched him go and thought about the little boy poring over a book on fungi all those years ago.

Shit. Maybe Merlin was right.

Eggsy kept in touch by text and the occasional call, and although he said very little about his home life, Harry suspected it was starting to get to him. He sounded angry and fed up, even though he never took it out on Harry, and he stonewalled any gentle enquiries Harry made.

Harry didn’t push. Eggsy was his own man and it wasn’t his place to pry.

Mostly they talked about art.

“What do you think of Hirst?” Eggsy asked.

“Reassure me you’re not in polite company first.”

Eggsy laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“Banksy?” Harry asked one evening.

Eggsy sighed. “Complicated. He’s pretty funny though.”

“The fellow in _The Guardian_ hates him,” Harry said absently, the review having prompted his question.

“Yeah, he pisses some people off all right,” Eggsy said cheerfully.

Sometimes their calls took place in the early hours of the morning. Eggsy would text to see if Harry was still awake, and Harry learned he spent these hours sitting in the cold somewhere, waiting for nothing in particular. The conversations then were strange and meandering; if Harry was still awake he’d been working, and he’d stretch out on his couch or sit at his desk, his phone against his ear.

“Picasso had a marvellous life,” he said. “A long and healthy one for a start. Art, success, money, pretty young things, and houses in the south of France.”

“Life goals eh, Harry?” Eggsy’s voice was warm in his ear. “Well, you’re halfway there, right?”

“Nowhere near,” he replied.

It was on the tip of his tongue a dozen times to invite Eggsy over, to come in out of the cold, to find welcome. Sometimes he thought Eggsy was waiting for it, in the spaces between their sentences.

But he wasn’t sure. Each time he stayed silent, decided to wait until next time.

One night Eggsy called early.

Harry could hear the anger and shame in his voice as he asked, pleaded really, for a favour. Harry gave him one. He went to the station in his suit and tie and leather case, and told them he was here to bail out Gary Unwin.

Harry had never heard Eggsy’s legal name before. It had never even occurred to him to ask for it.

Eggsy shuffled out, looking guilty and defeated.

When the policewoman asked him who he was, Harry said he was Eggsy’s art teacher.

“Maybe you should get him to take up watercolours instead,” she suggested.

Eggsy walked beside him with the attitude of a whipped dog as they went back out into the cold. At this time of night the only other person in the station was a young woman nursing a baby and a black eye. She muttered something obscene under her breath as they walked out.

As soon as they were outside Eggsy turned to him. “Harry I’m sorr-”

“Do you want to get a cab?”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Look, I’ll pay you back, I swear. I have the money.”

Harry knew Eggsy wouldn’t appreciate it if he waved it off, and he nodded, “Of course.”

When they got in the cab Harry asked if he wanted to go home. Eggsy shook his head miserably.

“What for? I’ll text me mum to let her know I’m okay, but I didn’t want her to come down here again for me. Some fucking Christmas present that would be. I just don’t want her to know; she’s got enough to worry about.”

Christmas itself was less than a week away. Harry gave the cabbie his own address and they drove through streets festooned with lights.

“Dean’s lot grassed me up,” Eggsy said. “They were waitin’ for me. They must have spun a story cause they seemed pretty disappointed all I had on me was paint.”

“Dean?” Harry asked.

“Shit.” Eggsy leaned forward in the seat, burying his face in his hands. “Mum’s boyfriend. He’s always been a prick but ain’t much bothered with me as long as I don’t get underfoot, except lately.” He lifted his head and took a deep breath. “I’ve been different, you know? I don’t feel right taking shit the way I used to. It’s your fault.” He looked at Harry suddenly.

“Mine?”

“Dean says I’m getting arrogant, that someone will put me in my place someday.”

“What do you think?” Harry asked.

It took Eggsy a long time to answer. He looked out the window and folded his arms and unfolded them and looked at Harry and away again.

“I want to go straight,” he said finally. Smiled ruefully. “Not straight. Legit. That sounds better. I don’t even know how, and now they want to bang me up.”

“Vandalism is not a capital crime, Eggsy.”

“Yeah but I got form. Juvenile record’s been sealed but they seemed pretty confident they were gonna put me away.” He blinked and bit his lip. “They might have been trying to scare me, but it fucking worked, didn’t it?”

Harry wanted to reach out, to put a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder, but Eggsy had closed himself off, arms folded and shoulders hunched. It was a long trip.

Harry was glad to be home. He set his case against the wall and told Eggsy to make himself comfortable.

Eggsy looked at the case.

“Was you working tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You walked into a police station with a stolen painting?”

“They were very unlikely to know that, weren’t they?”

Eggsy stared at him. “You have the biggest balls of anyone I have ever met,” he declared.

“Thank you.”

“Can I see it? The painting I mean, not the balls.” Eggsy seemed to have livened up a bit now they were out of the cold.

“I’ll set it up downstairs.”

“Not that they wouldn’t be great or nothing,” Eggsy added.

Harry didn’t reply.

They stared at the Metzinger in silence for a while. Eggsy sighed.

“It wasn’t just tonight, you know. I’ve been thinking of packing it in for a while now.”

“Eggsy you can’t stop painting,” Harry said, alarmed.

“Nah, not that. But the forging. All this stuff we’ve been talking about, art and all that, I was thinking how absolutely livid I’d be if someone tagged their own work as Kingsman. Even if it was good. Even if it was better than my stuff. But at least I’m alive to say ‘nah that shit’s not mine,’ but these guys are all dead. And most of ‘em got ripped off while they were alive. Like adding insult to injury.”

“I don’t know that they all would have disapproved. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all that. Originally forgery was considered an art equal to the originals; it's the money that makes it a sin, not anything inherent in the work, in my opinion. But, if you don’t feel it’s right, you should stop.”

Eggsy shrugged and they walked upstairs, Harry locking the basement behind them.

“I just dunno what to do instead. I’m almost fucking worthless.”

“Eggsy.” Harry walked up to him, his hands clasped behind his back. “Will you let me help you?”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Well, get you a lawyer for a start. Do you have a portfolio?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Polish it.”

Eggsy looked up at him, and Harry willed him to agree, willed him to take a chance.

“Okay,” Eggsy said.

Harry called Merlin. Eggsy watched with interest.

“Hello old friend. I’m sorry, did I wake you up?” Harry held the phone away from his ear while Merlin swore at him. Eggsy grinned.

“I need you to do something for me. There’s a young man with a portfolio—now I don’t need you to cheat, in fact I won’t hear of it—but you can make sure it gets in front of the right people.”

Eggsy was barely breathing, barely blinking.

“You don’t need to worry about the rest. The work will speak for itself. No, I don’t suppose I had to wake you up. I knew you would. Thank you. Goodnight.”

Harry hung up and turned to Eggsy.

“You’ve got until the New Year at least; almost everyone’s on winter holidays.”

“You think someone will want me?” Eggsy asked.

“Absolutely.” He was going to say more but before he could get another word out the younger man had practically launched himself at him and wrapped his arms around him in a firm hug. The sweet, warm shock of him rendered Harry quite speechless as Eggsy spoke over his shoulder.

“Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Rather cautiously, Harry hugged him back, feeling the hard, tense lines of him through his clothes. “I know.”

“I heard it a lot as a kid, you know. That if I did this and that and applied myself I could have all this potential.” He dropped down off his toes and pulled away slightly, looking into Harry’s face. “I dunno if anyone’s ever thought I was already worth anything.”

“Stay here,” Harry heard himself saying, somewhere on the surface. It sounded like it was a long way away; he was well deep in Eggsy’s eyes. Eggsy glanced at his mouth and then met his gaze again and Harry forced himself to take a breath. Oxygen, not Eggsy. “Tonight, anyway. I have spare room.”

He stepped away. He knew that Eggsy wouldn’t have said no and that knowledge would have to be enough for now. It had been a hard night, full of impulse and opportunity and it was enough for now. Eggsy had more important things to think about than him.

Later, maybe. If he was lucky. If his bird hadn’t spread its wings and flown away by then.

Eggsy smiled. Harry couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or pleased.

Eggsy’s friend had gone home for Christmas; no more access to the studio at Oxford, and Harry thought it was quite natural to volunteer his own place while Eggsy worked on his portfolio. He’d mentioned that his unfinished mural, the one with Harry’s portrait, had been painted over. Slate grey, to match the stone around it. He didn’t seem too upset; if anything he looked vaguely relieved.

Eggsy didn’t stay over again, and tried to avoid being around for meals, a courtesy Harry found rather senseless, but didn’t force the issue. Eggsy spent most of the time in the dining room, where the light was best, drawing or painting.

He attempted to draw Harry himself sometimes, but it never worked out. Harry could always tell when he'd been trying by the way the corners of his mouth turned down.

Harry got him art supplies for Christmas. Eggsy stayed home on the day itself to spend time with his family, but he was back the next day and received Harry’s gifts with a ‘you really didn’t have to.’

He presented Harry rather shyly with a large pencil sketch of his own kitchen, the pots and pans glimmering with their own light, as if there were a fireplace somewhere just out of frame. He’d signed it _Eggsy Unwin_.

Harry was delighted with it and decided he would rather have it in his home rather than in the secret basement with the others, and Eggsy trailed along behind him while he decided which of his shadow-boxes of butterflies would have to be sacrificed for the addition.

“You’re really into butterflies then?” Eggsy said, holding one of the boxes while Harry held the painting up in its place.

“Lepidoptery,” Harry said. “Butterfly collecting. It’s all right, as far as it goes.”

“All right? Harry, you have hundreds.”

“Well, I’ve been doing it since I was a child. No, no I don’t like it there. Hold this while I put them back, would you?”

Eggsy didn’t seem to want to let the subject drop. “How’d you get into it then?”

Harry sighed and admitted defeat.

“Camouflage, really.” Eggsy was listening. He listened harder than anyone Harry had ever met. “Have you ever felt that you might be different from your peers, in a way that’s not easy to explain and a bit unsettling? If you have something that obviously and superficially sets you apart, you can protect your own strangeness. There are worse things to be than the boy with the butterfly obsession, don’t you think?”

Eggsy nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” He looked around at the collection. “Wish I’d had butterflies.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. They looked ruefully at each other, and Harry marvelled at how they could be so different and so similar.

When the New Year arrived, Harry put Eggsy’s portfolio in Merlin’s capable hands, and let him do his thing. Merlin shopped around for a teacher, artist, gallery owner or dealer looking for an apprentice or the Next Big Thing.

“He’s not bad. Bit more work and I’d sell him. He’s a bit obvious; unsophisticated, but it’s nothing a decent class or two couldn’t fix.”

“It’s not enough to get him into a class,” Harry said. “He needs money.”

“We all need money,” Merlin said. At Harry’s frown he relented. “I’ll see what I can do. But you’re the one who insisted we don’t cheat.”

Eggsy bore the rejections with stoicism, and talked more of getting a job somewhere, anywhere, if he could find one. Harry almost suggested he continue forging, but he seemed determined not to and Harry was equally determined not to try and make his choices for him.

It snowed.

It was magical for about fifteen minutes and then it was awful for the next week. Harry spent most nights indoors, waiting for weather more clement to his profession.

Early in February, Eggsy called him while he was still having breakfast.

“Harry!” Eggsy practically shouted in his ear. “I got a place! Private master-class and such. I can’t believe it; I wouldn’t have even known it existed to apply for if it weren’t for your mate. I got a bursary or something and they’re gonna pay me.” He practically sang the last few words.

“Congratulations,” Harry said, as soon as he could get a word in.

“It’s like a private college thing. Have you seen- yes, Mum.” He spoke away from the phone for a moment. “Mum’s gone mental. In a good way, mind. They’re payin’ me enough that I can move out, Harry. Nowhere great but if I find a place to share. I can get away from here.” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh and cry at the same time. “Thank you. _Thank you._ ”

“You’ve earned it, Eggsy. Every penny. I know you’ll do great things with it.”

Eggsy’s mother added her thanks as well, and when Eggsy got his phone back he explained how he’d told her about Harry, the man who’d seen his art in the street and believed in him. Harry looked out his window at the cold and miserable day outside, but he didn’t see any of it; Eggsy’s voice was birdsong and sunshine in his ear.

“I think this calls for a celebration,” he said. “Would you care to join me for lunch?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“I warn you, I'm going to do this properly.”

The last few weeks had not been entirely comfortable. It wasn't Eggsy cluttering up his house, leaving art supplies and bits of paper around the place, or rather, it _was_ and Harry's utterly painless acceptance of the same that was bothering him.

Like hell he was going to wait for him to graduate. That might take years, and Harry was patient only up to a point. He didn't want to be a last resort while Eggsy was feeling worried and stressed and trapped by a future that didn't seem to have a place for him.

Now he didn't have to be.

He took his time getting ready, imagining Eggsy's 'another suit, Harry?' while he tried not to meet his own eye in the mirror.

Eggsy had taken his warning seriously. He was wearing a button down shirt that looked like it had seen an iron, and the jeans he'd worn to Oxford. His overcoat didn't fit him all that well; Harry guessed it belonged to someone else, probably his father. Harry eyed him off and considered getting him a suit as a graduation present, which was getting a little ahead of himself he had to admit.

Eggsy beamed when he saw Harry, his face stretched around a grin the likes of which Harry hadn't seen on him in weeks.

“Shall we?”

It was the usual restaurant he and Merlin went to for lunch, but Eggsy was clearly impressed, and as they were shown to Harry's regular table, Harry suspected the kitchen staff would be gossiping about them.

Harry was a bit worried Eggsy would be uncomfortable here, but after a few minutes his natural confidence returned and he relaxed, even if he was the youngest person in the room not serving drinks. Eggsy tended to hesitate until he saw which set of cutlery Harry was using, but otherwise, he was bright and animated, filling Harry in on the details of his placement, and still excited over working out what bus routes he'd be taking and other details. Harry let him talk, and just basked in his relief and happiness.

He slowed down over the main course.

“Think I'll be okay?” he asked, chin bowed a little but his eyes on Harry's face.

“It's going to be hard,” Harry said. “It's an awful industry. Full of awful people with investment portfolios and delusions of taste. I'd feel worse about stealing from them if I liked them.”

Eggsy smiled a little.

“In some ways it's ridiculous even putting a price on art. It adds a layer of meaning utterly divorced from the work itself, because everything is judged by how much money you can get for it.” He looked into his eyes, “But you are good. And you will go places. All you needed was someone to open a door for you.”

“I dunno,” Eggsy raised a shoulder. “I still can't draw you.”

They went to Tate Modern after lunch. Harry tried to visit at least once a year and he kept an eye out for exhibits he particularly wanted to see, but a lot of the time he just went to people watch; he liked seeing people who weren't in the industry interact with the art. He'd always intended to take Eggsy there at some point, and there was no time like the present.

Eggsy was going to be very busy soon, and Harry had resigned himself to seeing less of his young friend.

They didn’t try and rush around to see everything, taking the exhibits in at a leisurely pace, veering off-course when something caught their eye. At around the hour and a half mark they were starting to flag and by unspoken mutual agreement they started heading for the doors.

“Hey Harry,” Eggsy stopped and looked back the way they’d come. “If you could steal anything we’ve seen today, which would you take?”

“I don’t steal from public galleries,” Harry said severely. “Only private collections, and not just because the security at these places is exceptional.”

Eggsy rolled his eyes. “Yes, all right, but humour me. Hypothetically.”

Harry stopped and thought about it, but if he was honest he’d been paying more attention to Eggsy’s reactions than the works themselves. Eggsy himself was watching him now, eagerly awaiting his answer with a knowing smile, certain whatever Harry picked would start a discussion or have a story behind it.

Eggsy was so hard to spoil, so rigid in his desire not to have any debts, Harry was completely unable to resist spoiling him when he had the chance, and this afternoon had been delightful. Eggsy was going to go to school; he was going to meet intelligent people his own age who shared his love of art and his desire to create.

Harry was many things but selfless was not one of them. He did not want to wait for Eggsy to meet these people.

“I think,” he said carefully. Now or never. Fortune favours the brave, etc. He looked into Eggsy’s eyes. “I’d rather take home an artist, this time.”

Eggsy blinked, taking a moment to process this. Harry waited, hiding behind an impassive expression that he wasn’t sure reached his eyes.

“Really?” Eggsy cocked his head and he had to know it was charming; no one could possibly be that artless.

“Mm.” Nope. He wasn’t giving anything else away until he got a better response.

“And what would you do with him after you’d stolen him?” Eggsy asked, rocking back on his heels.

“What I do with all my acquisitions. I would take him home and look after him. I would not, however, get him evaluated. I have no intention of selling him on. I’m afraid the metaphor breaks down a bit at that point.”

He waited, still braced for a rejection he didn't really think was coming.

It wasn't.

“Harry, take me home.” He’d looked ridiculously happy all day but now he’d practically lit up.

“I will,” Harry said. “But there are formalities to be gone through first, if you’d permit me.” Eggsy had shuffled closer while they were talking and he tilted his head up as Harry raised a hand to cup his cheek.

He permitted.

His eyes fluttered closed as Harry bent his head down, his lips parted, a smile curving their corners. Look at us, Harry thought, thieves and vandals in this temple to art, but honest disciples too. He kissed him with the formality and gravity that the moment required, their own little performance art piece: Theft in Progress, Harry decided to call it, although by whom and of what, he wasn’t sure.

Eggsy sighed against his mouth, taking his lead from Harry, restraining himself to a mere flutter of tongue against Harry’s lips. His hands had found Harry’s chest, fingers curled around the collar of his suit jacket.

“Are we allowed to do this here?” Eggsy asked when they parted.

Harry just raised an eyebrow at him and Eggsy got it. Of course he did; he was equally likely as Harry was to disregard what was and wasn’t allowed and he took Harry’s arm and they walked out to collect their coats.

As Harry had promised, he took him home.

It was a long trip, full of suggestive smiles and casual brushing up of bodies as they took the tube. Harry was quite sure they were obvious to anyone who cared to observe them and he found he didn’t mind at all. They could envy him, if they liked.

When they arrived back at Harry’s house, Eggsy practically skipped up to the door and as soon as they’d closed it behind them he pounced on Harry and kissed him properly. Or perhaps improperly, as hands wandered and Harry tried to explain without biting Eggsy’s tongue that it was awfully hard to get his coat off with Eggsy hanging off him like that.

If Eggsy had pointed out that Harry seemed more interested in fondling his arse through his jeans than taking off his coat Harry might have conceded the point, but he didn’t, instead tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair, his breath whistling slightly in his nose as he sucked gently at Harry’s lips.

They were wearing so many clothes Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he could feel the ridge of Eggsy’s cock against his leg. Eggsy pulled back suddenly, his hands still splayed around Harry’s jaw, his eyes both bright and dark.

“Why’d you wait?” he breathed, each word hot against Harry’s skin.

“I wanted it to be right,” Harry said.

“And now it’s right?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. I’m really.” Harry lifted his hands as far as Eggsy’s waist. This wasn’t really an arse-grabbing conversation any more. “I’m really glad we got to meet and it’s going to be terribly boring without you once you’re busy with school.”

“I’ll make time for you, Harry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I think.”

“It's a bit early to make those sort of pronouncements.”

Eggsy’s fingers were still slightly cold as he traced what Harry rather ruefully suspected were the lines on his face. He touched his lips, his eyebrows, and Harry could recognise the look in his eyes; he’d seen it before, a dawning realisation, a sudden delighted energy.

“Harry, I think I’ve got it.”

“Let me guess, you want to draw me,” he said.

“Well.” He shrugged. “I also want to go upstairs and see what that incredibly posh bed I bet you have is like and stretch you out on it.”

“Well, we could do both.”

“Harry, you’re a genius!” Eggsy darted off to find a sketchbook.

“Eggsy!” Harry beckoned him back and tugged his greatcoat off. “Honestly, you artists.”

Eggsy winked at him and hurried off again while Harry took off his own coat.

Eggsy took so long to come upstairs Harry had time to take off his shoes and jacket and pull back the covers. He was starting to wonder if Eggsy had changed his mind when he appeared, his sketchbook under his arm.

“I can't find my pencils. I think I must have taken them home. Uh, is charcoal okay?”

Harry looked at his pristine sheets and shrugged. He wasn't planning on keeping them clean anyway.

“At least it's not oils.”

Eggsy took a deep breath. “Are you sure it's okay? We could leave it for after.”

Harry kissed him. He was such a lovely thing to kiss, sweet and warm. “Do you know what you look like when you get inspired?” he asked.

Eggsy shook his head.

“I wish I could show you. It's indescribable. But aside from that.” He cupped Eggsy's cheek, “I can tell part of you would be thinking about your art, and call me selfish but I don't want you thinking about anything else but me. Not even drawing me.” He breathed these words against Eggsy's skin. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy said, a bit shakily. “You'd better get over there then cause if you keep that up-ah! _Harry!_ ” Eggsy squirmed as Harry put his lips around Eggsy's earlobe and sucked gently. “Say one thing and do another,” he grumbled as he pushed Harry pointedly in the direction of the bed.

Harry acquiesced.

He stretched out on the bed while Eggsy sat cross-legged on the end and opened his sketchbook. Harry let him work in peace for a while, watching the way his forehead wrinkled and smoothed, listening to the sound of the charcoal on paper. When Eggsy flipped the page over, Harry started unbuttoning his shirt.

Eggsy had been looking at him and away again, but his fingers on the buttons caught his attention and held it. Harry took his time, and Eggsy shifted on the end of the bed as he let the shirt fall open.

Eggsy licked his lips.

“Better?” Harry asked, his voice bringing Eggsy back to himself, his gaze snapping up to meet Harry's.

“Yeah, like that.” He cleared his throat and frowned and got back to work.

This was how the day in Oxford should have gone, Harry thought. He'd allowed himself to imagine a few alternatives to the reality and he did so again, watching Eggsy catch his tongue between his teeth as he worked. He let himself enjoy it, remembering the taste of Eggsy's mouth, feeling himself start to get hard.

He didn't say anything, didn't move all that much, but Eggsy noticed. He noticed and his lips made a little 'o' shape for a moment and he flipped the page almost aggressively. In a hurry now, he wiped his cheek and left a streak of charcoal, and he attacked the page with broad, quick strokes, his fingers now almost black.

Eggsy stared at him, trailing his eyes up Harry's body and meeting his gaze.

“What am I _doing_?” he asked, looking vaguely horrified and then tossing sketchbook and charcoal over the side of the bed and pouncing on him. “I must be mad,” he muttered stretching out on top of Harry and kissing his face, his fingers leaving smudges on Harry's skin and sheets. Harry could feel him getting hard even as he spoke.

“You're an artist,” Harry said indulgently but he was rather glad Eggsy had stopped sketching.

Eggsy pulled back and looked at his fingers.

“Uh, I should clean up.”

“I don't care,” Harry said, and caught his hand in his own. “Now take your clothes off.”

“Yes, Harry.” Eggsy rolled off him to do just that and Harry shed the rest of his clothing with equal enthusiasm.

Eggsy was wonderful. Lithe and lovely, and his skin was dotted with little beauty marks that Harry wanted to chase and count and map out. Eggsy seemed equally enamoured of Harry, but he'd had his turn and wasted it drawing, and Harry rolled them over so Eggsy was spread out underneath him and he set about getting to know him, thoroughly and without hurry.

The hand he'd used to hold Eggsy's left smudges of charcoal on Eggsy's hip and shoulder and leg, and Harry suspected it would be all through his hair, given the way Eggsy kept combing his fingers through it.

Harry got his lips around Eggsy's cock only for a moment, Eggsy practically bucked him off and pulled him back up so he could kiss him.

“I wanna come with you,” Eggsy said, his lips spit slicked and open against Harry's chin. “I want-” He was leaving fingerprints all over him, grey like bruises, and smudges on the sheets and Harry thought it was marvellous. Even if he was getting fingerprints on his arse.

They could wash it all off later.

They tangled up in each other, cocks butting blindly against skin, Eggsy's hips quivering whenever Harry rolled his own.

Harry groaned and let his head fall forward onto Eggsy's shoulder when he felt warm, dusty fingers, calloused from holding brushes and pens, wrap around his cock.

“You are making such a mess,” Harry said, eventually rolling slightly to the side so he could see Eggsy work. Charcoal and precome had mixed to leave streaks on their skin.

“You love it,” Eggsy said, grinning.

“I do.”

He felt and saw the air leave Eggsy's lungs as he breathlessly laughed Harry's name against his temple.

“You're too good,” Eggsy mumbled, somehow managing to go bright red despite the fact that a good deal of his blood had to have been diverted to his cock. Which was really too lovely to neglect like this and Harry remedied that, making Eggsy arch up against him with one slow, teasing stroke.

That's how it was for a little while, but as their breaths grew shorter, Harry rolled over Eggsy again, and they fumbled, unclasping their fingers, sticky and slick so they could press their cocks against each other.

Eggsy panted over Harry's shoulder, his free hand tangled in Harry's hair, occasionally pressing kisses into Harry's skin. Harry could have kept going for a while; one of the few consolations of aging was stamina he couldn't have dreamed of when he was Eggsy's age, but that was for a different time. Eggsy wanted to come together, and Harry would do his best to oblige. He'd do almost anything Eggsy wanted.

He'd draw the line at oil paints in the bedroom.

So he let himself go, lost himself in the smell of him, youth and lust and inexpensive cologne, and tasted the side of his neck, his ear, lost himself over and over.

“Too much, too much,” Eggsy gasped and Harry could only think, wait until I swallow you, wait until I'm inside you, the things he would show this lovely man. He couldn't wait for the rest of everything with him.

He gripped him tighter, his arm under Eggsy's shoulders, his fist white-knuckled as he tensed over him. Eggsy babbled, squirming, his leg hooked over Harry's hip, threatening to slide off every time they moved.

There it is, I've got you. I've got you.

Eggsy had him too, had him groaning and shaking and Eggsy's sobbing shout in his ear and the first wash of wet heat over their linked hands had him over the edge, swearing, teeth bared against Eggsy's neck. He'd have a mark there, probably.

Sorry. He kissed the spot, when he had the energy to do so. He rolled off Eggsy and retrieved his arm from under him before it started going to sleep.

Eggsy propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the mess.

“My finest work,” he proclaimed, still catching his breath.

Harry laughed despite himself. “Jesus Christ, Eggsy.”

They looked at each other and Eggsy sighed and flopped down again, pressing himself against Harry's side.

“How'd the drawing go?” Harry asked.

“Good. Really good.”

“Can I see?”

“Mm.” Eggsy was hiding his face in Harry's shoulder. “I suppose.”

“What's wrong?”

“I just.” He lifted his head. “I figured out what I wanted to say. What you are.” He was doing it again, looking at him with an artist's eye, and then he focused and looked at Harry as he was. “Like I said. Best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Harry didn't argue; he'd just have to do his best to live up to the title.

**Author's Note:**

> The images can also be found on tanekore's tumblr [here.](http://tanekore.tumblr.com/post/130807130303/hartwins-mongoose-bite-and-i-decided-to-work)


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